somewhere between sorrow and bliss
by creatoriginsane
Summary: In a garden, a soldier and a dancer meet. AU: Dietfried needs time. Cattleya writes his letters.
1. Chapter 1

**somewhere between sorrow and bliss**

A/N: My guilty pleasure ship. Don't blame me, blame episode 12 and KyoAni's aesthetically pleasing character designs.

AU because... Why the hell would Cattleya write letters for Dietfried anyway?

Just let me have this.

(Title is from Florence + The Machine's "Too Much Is Never Enough.")

* * *

 _In a garden, a soldier and a dancer meet._

 _AU: Dietfried needs time. Cattleya writes his letters._

* * *

Dietfried was told they'd be sending in a Doll.

He was half-terrified, half-furious at the pronouncement. How dare they?

How _dare_ they?

To think he would need another person to write his letters for him.

What is he, a child?

What does he need to write letters for? _Who_ does he need to write letters for?

He grimaces.

He remembers the war-machine.

The child.

He clenches his fists.

He paces.

He remembers Violet.

And then he remembers his brother.

Gilbert.

His precious younger brother.

He scoffs.

He's acting like a child now.

But he doesn't care.

He huffs.

 _Why?_

The doorbell rings.

He expects her to come, of all people, because it would be the sweetest irony life could to offer him.

But no.

Life allowed him this mercy.

And so it sent to him this woman.

"Hello. I am Cattleya Baudelaire of the CH Postal Service. I am at your service, Mr. Bougainvillea."

Gentle her greeting may be, there's an anger in her eyes that he only frowns at.

* * *

Cattleya was told that this mission was of utmost importance.

She elated and nervous at the same time. She hasn't felt that way in a long time.

She's gotten so used to writing love letters so much that she waits and she waits for new tasks to be assigned to her.

Call it a complaint, but she's honestly tired of writing about love.

A love letter is just a set of words strung together, and words are just words.

 _I love you._

They are just words.

Cattleya might be the most famous and the favorite amongst the Dolls in the city, but she truly believes that actions speak louder and say much more than words could ever hope to.

So her next task is to write letters, they didn't specify what, for a man in the comfort of his own home.

It seems easy enough. She has been sent to all of these places with the same task, anyway.

The man lives in a grand manor, obviously too big for just one occupant, and she remembers the stories told to her when she was younger.

 _A man living alone in a big house is never good._

But Cattleya can more than handle herself around men.

So she rings the doorbell.

And greets with an elegant and charming air, as she always does, when the door opens.

Thank the stars her words don't disappear into her mouth when she sees the tired-looking Dietfried Bougainvillea.

"Oh. They've sent you."

He frowns at her words and leads her quietly inside.

She sighs.

This is going to take some time.


	2. Chapter 2

**somewhere between sorrow and bliss**

A/N: Crack is what I live for.

* * *

 _In a garden, a soldier and a dancer meet._

* * *

Diefried doesn't know what to tell her.

She's seated across him at the grand dining table. It's just the two of them in this room, probably the only two people in the grand manor, and it's quiet.

Her typewriter rattles as she places it on the table without any difficulty—Oh, she's quite a strong woman.

And she waits.

It's quiet.

Her fingers are steady on the keys.

She's _waiting_.

Her eyes never lift from above the paper.

It's quiet.

 _Are Dolls usually like this, or..._

"I don't need you." He muttered his confession.

She sighs.

"I'm afraid that is not for you to decide, Mr. Bougainvillea."

Of course, they knew he would say that.

"My employer..."

"...is my superior officer." He finished for her. "And whatever I say holds no importance in his decision."

Her mouth hangs agape as if to utter something more, but she clamps it shut and returns to the typewriter.

She breathes audibly before speaking, "So if you have anything to say..."

"Nothing." He says as he stands. "You may leave."

But she doesn't.

Instead, she remains where she is. _How ever-dutiful._

It almost reminds him of the stubborn girl.

No.

Not girl.

Weapon.

 _Tool._

As a matter of fact, these Auto-Memory Dolls are tools too.

This Doll in front of him is a tool.

"Very well, Mr. Bougainvillea." She stands from her seat, and he sees her out without so much as a goodbye.

 _And tools do not have a will of their own._

But the typewriter remained on the table.

He curses.

Their first day ends.

* * *

Cattleya thinks he needs to do a bit of cleaning. Grand manor it may be, the dust and cobwebs give off the impression that no one has lived there for years. And perhaps that is the case, but he's a rich man, isn't he? His family ought to have maids and other servants scurrying about, scrubbing and dusting the place clean; make it look the least bit presentable, decorate it in such a way that would make it look not so empty.

So it doesn't really come off as a surprise when she rings the doorbell the next day, and no one comes to answer it.

She thinks knocking on the door is the more obvious and aggressive approach, so she knocks.

Still, no one comes to answer.

She sighs.

 _How rude!_

It's one thing for a man to ignore someone knocking, but for a man to ignore a woman of her charm?

It's almost blasphemous.

But she doesn't knock again, she doesn't ring the bell, she simply leaves.

And if she catches him staring out of a second-floor window, thinking to himself that he is hidden behind a curtain of both misery and mystery like all those brooding princes from childhood fairytales, then Cattleya would be the princess destined to rescue him from his prison.

But she sees nothing but dark curtains when she looks up at the windows.

She shakes her head.

She could hardly be called a princess, anyway.

Their second day ends.

* * *

The third day comes, and Dietfried dreads what is to come.

He thinks it's silly, what they're trying to do, think's there's no point in all this fuss over him and this act of writing letters. He's always been the straightforward type, after all, preferring to speak face-to-face than to hide behind words on paper.

 _"On your way, soldier."_

He never told Gilbert he loved him, did he?

Sometimes, his mind drifts to such thoughts, and regret begins to haunt him. It hangs over him like a shadow, follows him closely like a predator, waiting for the precise moment to catch him off-guard and devour him completely.

But Dietfried, as much as any soldier of his caliber, never allows himself to lower his defenses.

He should _never_ be caught off-guard.

But when the news of Gilbert's fate reached him, he nearly toppled over.

 _"Captain Bougainvillea, our sincerest condolences–"_

His stubbornness refused to listen to anything that came after. They told him through a letter, before anything else, all formal and impersonal. He was at sea when it happened. He was at sea when they told him. He was far, so far away from Gilbert, that no matter how he wished to be allowed to leave the ship, he knew he wouldn't be able to reach him.

It wasn't as if he would be allowed to leave, anyway.

So instead of crying his eyes out before his superior officers, instead of begging to be let off the ship, he kept himself to his room, locked the door, and laid in bed until the next day.

His superiors worried over his loss of appetite, claiming that it might affect his duties as ship captain.

They weren't worried about anything else. This was a war, after all.

But today, the war is over, finally over.

Life goes on. _It has to._

Gilbert is dead.

Dietfried should move on.

 _He has to._

And if his superiors think that writing letters ought to help him, then so be it.

So he sits, waits for the doorbell to ring, waits for a knock on the door, anything to disturb him from his misery.

The clock climes, it's ten in the morning, and he waits.

* * *

When Cattleya arrives in front of his manor, she half-expected a sign that says "No Auto-memories Dolls Allowed" or any clear indication that she would be better off packing her things and leaving without a second glance. There is none. So she walks up to the door and knocks quietly, expecting for no response.

Instead, the door opens to reveal Dietfried Bougainvillea, looking as if he hasn't had any sleep the past night.

"I apologize for my behavior for the past two days." He says immediately, suddenly ashamed. "It was–I find this task troublesome."

Cattleya agrees with him to a certain extent. It's troublesome enough to leave the comfort of the CH Postal Office on a daily basis and head off to where only the rich and famous can afford to live in Leiden. She feels underdressed, honestly, and out of place in this posh district.

But she's a Doll. She has a job to do. She doesn't want to disappoint anyone, especially Claudia.

"Good morning, Mr. Bougainvillea." She greets, smiling tightly, "It's alright. A lot of people find mourning to be a difficult task."

Dietfried's tight face softens the slightest bit, and he replies quietly, "An extremely difficult one, it seems."

"Well, then." Cattleya speaks, suddenly awkward, "May I come inside?"

There's a pause before he steps aside, eyes downcast.

"Thank you." She replies quietly.

But she wonders how she could be the best choice for such a task. Sure, she's a famous Doll, well-loved and well-received, with nearly the whole of Leidenschaftlich begging for her to write their letters, be it wedding proposals or letters of apology, but to be tasked with writing the letters of this navy captain that was directly related to Violet's late…

 _What was Major Bougainvillea to Violet, anyway?_

Perhaps she loved him. Perhaps she was in love with him. But as far as Cattleya knows, he had been someone very dear to Violet, so perhaps it would have been better if Violet had been the one assigned to such a task.

But at the same time, Dietfried Bougainvillea had been Violet's former superior, and he had thought of Violet as nothing more than a tool. Perhaps that would hinder the healing process. Perhaps it would be difficult for him.

 _Perhaps._

But then he walks past her, pulls out a chair from the dining table, where she had left her typewriter, and dutifully asks her if she'd like some tea.

"I've heard that Chamomile helps…" He trailed off as he offered her a cup.

"Please, Mr. Bougainvillea." She said stiffly, practiced smile threatening to fall, "Do not concern yourself with me. I am only here to help you."

"I would have to apologize again." He says, lowering the cup onto the table. "But would it trouble you if we postpone writing letters?"

Her hands stiffen.

 _What?_

"I just…" He's half-speechless when he notices her eyes widen slightly. "Would it be alright for me to just… talk?"

Cattleya is no counselor, but she's always ready to listen.

Well, not _always_ , as she's hesitating, thinking about what answer to give this man who had wanted nothing to do with her just two days before.

"Very well, Mr. Bougainvillea." She relaxes the tiniest bit. "I am here to listen."

"Thank you." He says, quiet relief washing over his face, "Ms. Baudelaire."

Their third day begins.


End file.
